


Scratch My Back

by Turn_of_the_Sonic_Screw



Series: February Ficlet Challenge 2019 [6]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Foursome - F/F/F/M, Gambling, Light Angst, Massage, Multi, Polyamory, Telepathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-07
Updated: 2019-02-07
Packaged: 2019-10-23 20:34:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17690393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Turn_of_the_Sonic_Screw/pseuds/Turn_of_the_Sonic_Screw
Summary: In which wagers are made, massages are given, and emotions are shared.Pairing:  Ashildr/Clara Oswald/River Song/Twelfth DoctorPrompt:  Nonverbal CommunicationBeta by imaginary_golux





	Scratch My Back

**Author's Note:**

> Loosely set in the same 'verse as my previous work, 101 Places to Remember, and makes vague mention of some events there. If you don't want to read it, all you really need to know is that Clara and Ashildr join River and the Doctor on Darillium, and they're all space-married.

Apparently Darillium had a Grand Prix, River learned, and it seemed _such_ a _shame_ not to go at least once in their 20+ years’ night’s stay. 

“Let’s gamble,” Clara urged, eyes reflecting the lights of the racecourse.

“We don’t have money,” Ashildr reminded her.

“Then we don’t use money,” the immortal retorted.

“ _Favors_?” River hinted. 

The Doctor rolled his eyes. “We’ve already got a chore wheel, so--” A triple glare silenced him. “Ah. ‘Favors.’ Well, choosing the winner should be a trivial matter of mathematics. In other words: I’m ready to rock.” He slid his sunglasses on as he spoke, the racetrack lights bright enough despite the absence of sun.

“Right so: winner picks, loser pays?” Clara proposed. 

“What about second place?” Ashildr asked. “Not that I’m planning on coming in second.”

“They can claim the same favor as the winner--if they like,” River offered, and the suggestion was met with success. 

The quartet placed their bets, watching breathlessly as the hoverbikes circled the course, banking around turns and dodging each other. Ashildr was the first to let out a cry of triumph as her racer crossed the line. Clara was next, punching the air. “Lucky number twelve, of course,” she said with a wink.

That left River and the Doctor, staring at a pair of riders toward the rear of the pack, racing neck and neck. Edging, in fact, too close together--a clipped fender was enough to send both bikes tumbling out of control, their riders activating their ejection seats to spring them to safety. “Shall we call it a draw?” he offered River, who pouted. 

“It was your racer who caused the crash,” she said with a frown, but relented, and took the Doctor’s hand.

***

Once back at the TARDIS, River and the Doctor waited with bated breath for the results of their wager: something sexual? Something humiliating? Both?

“Fuck me sideways, but I could use a backrub,” Ashildr moaned. “Clara, you in?” The others stared at her. “What? You try carrying around a few eons on your shoulders. I’ve kinks you wouldn’t believe.”

“Try me,” River purred.

“Ugh, but you didn’t half walk into that one,” Clara said with a grimace. “Shall we?” she asked, already unbuttoning her blouse. 

“May as well,” River allowed. “Haven’t got all night.” Her spouses groaned; did they really have decades of this level of punning to look forward to?

***

The Doctor worked his fingers into Ashildr’s bare shoulders, kneading slowly at the tension there. As she relaxed and her guard lowered, her surface thoughts hummed up at him through his fingertips; he carefully kept from probing too deeply. First simple purrs of physical pleasure, then the hedonistic smirks of enjoying an indulgence. 

Echoes of past emotions: first, recent, of the thrill of victory. Then half-remembered fear, carried forward from when she had put her life in the Doctor’s hands to judge her guilt. The Doctor blanched and instinctively moved his hands lower, away from her throat to soothe the middle of her back. A brief twitch of curiosity, a few words unspoken and swallowed. 

An erotic frisson followed as his hands strayed lower still. A subtle parting of her legs; an invitation? He frowned; it didn’t seem quite the time. Instead he passed strong pressure with his thumbs slowly back up and down her spine, continuing until she was a sleepy puddle beneath him, lips parted in her ease. He stood, unwilling to disturb her, and watched as River finished with Clara. 

***

Clara lay, towel over her bum, letting River’s hands work the stress from her muscles. She felt a surge of warmth; not a pleasant warmth, but the slow simmer of resentment. Touch telepathy, she realized, as River continued the massage. The heat began to bubble further, become more defined. The older woman traded in for the perpetually-younger model. The wife put aside for the mistress. The first and last romantic gesture from this face of her husband, squandered and divided. 

Clara considered being angry right back, luxuriating in the spite of making a rival serve her. It was tempting, and it probably would have felt quite good. And, honestly, she might have done if she hadn’t detected the bitterness of self-loathing beneath it, the anger at being unable to accept a perfectly lovely circumstance. So instead she inhaled, exhaled, and pushed out a wave of love. _The Doctor loves you. Ashildr loves you. I love you. We want to spend all the time we have with you. You are beautiful. You are lovely. You are loved._

Clara repeated the mantra as River massaged her, slowly soothing both of them. She waited for River to finish, then rolled over. “Would you like a massage?”

River blinked. “But I lost?”

“You’ve got a beautiful naked woman practically in your lap. Sounds like a win to me.” Clara grinned cheekily. “So, what do you say?”

“That’d be nice, thanks,” River responded after a moment’s deliberation. “Should I?..”

“Don’t be modest on my account.”

Across the room, Ashildr yawned up at the Doctor and curled around him. “Don’t think you’re getting one. I’m having a nap.”

“Naps are rubbish,” he muttered. He laid down next to her on the massage table anyway, kicking his boots off as he did. 


End file.
